Tom Logan, the protagonist of my novel A Gathering of Diamonds, is a Vietnam vet suffering from alcoholism, drug abuse and Delayed Stress Syndrome.  When his depression progresses to the point that he checks himself into a mental institution, he doubts that he will ever leave its doors.  That changes when he receives a mysterious package from his brother.

Logan’s brother has disappeared into the wild Ouachita Mountains of Arkansas and he wrests himself from his lethargy to try to find him.  He meets Amber Armstrong, a beautiful neo-pop poet/police officer, who aids in his quest.

With the assistance of Amber, an excellent runner, Logan’s physical and mental health begins improving.  Events that occurred in Vietnam involving caves and dark holes in the ground still grip his psyche, causing flashbacks at inopportune times.  Here is an excerpt from A Gathering of Diamonds featuring one of Tom Logan’s flashbacks:

       Jungle night, dark as a black glove cloaking a war waged on many fronts, mine fought along jungle trail systems, winding out of North Vietnam that skirted Laos and Cambodia.  North Vietnamese regulars traveled in small convoys, always at night, always on trails that extended, like distended entrails, through dark triple canopy.

       We were on ambush, lying in wait like stalking animals, and my muscles ached from two days of disuse.  My bladder was full and I was almost blind from staring into darkness.  Our squad had placed three claymores on one end of the trail, three more on the other - six weapons forming two claws of a deadly pincer as we flanked one side of the trail in a semi-circle.

       The opposite flank encompassed thick jungle growth impossible to penetrate.  At least as fast as hapless Vietnamese soldiers would have to exit the scene of impending carnage.  I was lying on my stomach trying not to squeeze the trigger of an M-60 - locked, loaded, and ready for blood.

       I heard something - bamboo snapping beneath someone's foot.  Whispers pealed like church bells.  It was not the choir and they were not on their way to Sunday school.  Stench of unwashed bodies accosted my nostrils and I began to see wraith-like movement along the trail.  A row of single file soldiers moved slowly past our position.

       An exploding trip flare lighted the jungle with smoke and billowing crimson and our clacker man blew half the claymores.  So close was I to the blast, I didn't hear the remaining weapons detonate but I saw the bloody result through dilated eyes suddenly awash in strobe-like eruptions of murderous light.  As I watched, bodies of terrified soldiers began dissolving in slow-motion explosions of flesh, blood, and bone.

       Three North Vietnamese Regulars somehow survived the blasts only to have us greet them with free fire from grenade launchers, M-16s and the M-60.  Realizing they couldn't escape through thick jungle they raised their weapons, opened fire and charged, headlong, into our position.

       Every third round from the M-60's muzzle was a tracer that continued lighting up the night until my bullets were gone.  The semi-circle of flashing death destroyed bamboo, trailing vines and any hapless creature caught in its deadly swath, my finger clenched on the big gun's trigger until thirty seconds after the last round of ammo had passed through the chamber.  A dying flare told me there was nothing left to shoot at but my twitching trigger finger kept trying anyway.

       One of the charging Vietnamese soldiers almost made it until taken out by a close range gut shot.  He died after thirty minutes of screaming agony.  At first, there was silence, and then darkness.  Left only was the stench of death, spent blood, gunpowder, and urine from someone’s loosened bladder - maybe my own.

       I opened my eyes on the hilly trail above the Holiday Inn.  Someone was screaming.  It was me.

Eric’s Web

Here is another recipe from my Aunt Dot's wonderful new cookbook All the Foods We've Loved Before.  This is a classic recipe from my grandmother Lela, also a great cook.

      1-package yeast

      ¼ -cup warm water

      ½ -tsp sugar

      ¼ -cup shortening

      1-tsp salt

      ¼ -cup sugar

      1-cup milk, scalded

      1-each egg, beaten

      4-cups flour

Moisten yeast in ¼-cup warm water.  Add ½-tsp sugar.  Let stand.  Add shortening, rest of sugar and salt to hot milk.  Stir until sugar dissolves.  Cook, then add egg.  Stir in softened yeast.  Next, add flour into liquid until well mixed.  Turn dough onto lightly floured board; knead quickly until smooth and elastic.  Form into a smooth ball.

Place ball in a well-greased bowl and turn over once or twice to grease entire surface.  Cover and let rise in warm place until double in bulk.  Knead well again and shape as desired.  Place in greased pan, cover and let rise for one hour more.  Bake at 400 degrees for fifteen to twenty minutes.

Eric’s Web

Welcome news for the natural gas industry.

Natural Gas Heads for Biggest Gain in 20 Months on Demand Signs - Bloomberg.com.

Eric’s Web

Crude oil rises above $64 per barrel.

Oil Rises to Six-Month High as OPEC Predicts Demand Recovery - Bloomberg.com.

Eric’s Web

While mudlogging for CORE Labs after graduating college with my degree in geology, I sat a well in south Texas that took about six weeks to drill.  It was not that the well was that deep or the drilling that slow, but it was quite simply the well from hell.

Everything that could possibly go wrong did go wrong.  The sand-shale sequence through which we were drilling was unconsolidated, the drilling fast and the hole soon crooked.  Well bores are never truly vertical because the drill bit rotates causing the pipe to corkscrew.  A dogleg sometimes occurs that results in the borehole changing direction abruptly.  This was the case in our well and it created worlds of problems every time the crews made a bit trip.

My fellow mudloggers and I only worked when the well was actually turning to the right.  Two drilling superintendents had already been relieved of duty because of problems on the well.  The new superintendent decided to try to fix the drilling problem before he became number three.

When dealing with problems encountered miles below the earth’s surface, it is impossible to estimate the time it might take to correct the problem.  Because of this, the company placed Jack, Art and me on stand-by.  This was okay with us because the company paid us and we did not have to work for it.

The quick fix to the drilling problem did not occur and by the third day, the three of us were tired of hanging around Weslaco.  We decided to take a field trip to South Padre Island for a little fun in the sun.  After icing down several six packs of beer, we headed for the beach.  By the time we reached sun and sand, we were all “two sheets to the wind,” as they say.

Jack was the senior man but he was only about thirty.  What bad habits that Art and I did not already possess, we learned from Jack.  Art and I worked on the beer while Jack had a bottle of Jack Daniel’s that he tippled straight from the bottle.  Jack was smart enough to let Art drive while he sat in the front seat giving us directions from a tattered Texas road map.

South Padre Island is a barrier bar that parallels the Texas Gulf coast and stretches for miles and miles.  We were looking for a beach with lots of gorgeous and scantily clad females but after miles of driving, we continued to see only bare sand.  Art finally spotted some people sunning on the beach and frolicking in the surf.

“I don’t see a road,” he said.

“There are no trees or ditches,” Jack said.  “Just cut cross country.”

This seemed like a perfectly good idea to both Art and me.  It was not.  Within fifty feet, we were stuck up to the hubs in sand and thirty minutes of effort beneath hot Texas sun failed to extricate us.

“Leave it here,” Jack said.  “I’m hot as hell.  Let’s take a swim.”

This also seemed like a good idea to Art and me.  Following Jack to the beach, we proceeded to strip down to our boxer shorts and dive into the surf.  In the manner of all good Texas oilmen, we were loud, boisterous, brazen and very drunk.  Within minutes, the crowded beach cleared leaving only the three of us to frolic in the surf.

We had no towels, no umbrella and no swim trunks.  Our cold beer in the trunk was a hundred yards away through ankle deep hot sand.  After an hour in the humidity and beneath the south Texas sun, we had all begun sobering up.  A good thing as we were able to free the car when we finally returned to it.

Down the road, we found a recreation area with a hotdog stand and many souvenir shops.  Even though we had our clothes back on, the crowd reaction was pretty much the same.  They all apparently saw us for what we were – “oil field trash.”  We ate a few hotdogs, ogled ever girl in sight and then headed back to Weslaco.

I awoke the next morning with a pounding head, queasy stomach and painful sunburn.  Worse, we learned the well was drilling again.

I wish I could say that I learned a valuable lesson from this experience.  Well maybe I did.  I realized that it is a bad idea to leave behind an ice chest loaded with beer even though you intend to go little more than a hundred yards away.

Eric’s Web

Is fusion fact or fantasy?  Find out (well, maybe) in this article.

At NIF, a Quest for Fusion Energy (or Maybe Folly) - NYTimes.com.

Eric’s Web

         Its Memorial Day weekend and Marilyn, Kate and I went to the Paseo Arts Festival in Oklahoma City.  The event gets bigger every year, this year the biggest yet.  I took many pics and I will share a few.

Eric’s Web

An absolutely enchanting slideshow featuring mysterious Caddo Lake.  The photos were taken by a NY Times reporter during his trip to the area.  Be sure to read the companion article.

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2009/05/22/travel/escapes/20090522-caddo-slideshow_index.html

Eric’s Web

Bones of Skeleton Creek is my new mystery novel in progress.  Buck McDivit is on the trail of modern-day rustlers in Logan County, Oklahoma.  When he and Trey Calderham, agent for the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association, locate the holding pen for an illegal cattle operation, an unexpected encounter ensues.  Here is a short, unedited excerpt from the first draft of Bones of Skeleton Creek:

“You drive.  Someone might recognize me if we get stopped.”  Crawling into the back, he grabbed a digital single lens reflex camera.  “I’m going to take a few pics through the portholes.”

       Trey settled in behind the wheel and started down the road.  They soon reached a tiny settlement complete with mobile homes, ramshackle buildings and cars without wheels, residing on blocks.

       A half-dozen Harley’s sat parked outside one of the trailers.  The weather was warm, but a thin strand of smoke puffed from a pipe in the trailer’s ceiling.

       “Crack house,” Trey said.  “I’d bet money on it.”

       Buck snapped  several pictures and then moved to the opposite side of the van for a few shots out the other side.

       “Check the truck out in front of that little house.  It’s the same one from Paseo.”

       “Damn sure is,” Trey said.  “Did you get the tag number?”

       “Got a picture of it,” Buck answered.  “Did you notice that there isn’t a mailbox anyplace?”

       “Yeah, and there’s a pit bull in every backyard.  Where do we go from here?”

       “Keep following the blacktop.  This road would be red clay unless there were something important on the end of it.”

       Trey continued driving through the little development, the last mobile home soon giving way to blackjacks and scrub brush.  About two more miles down the narrow road, they located what they were looking for, a holding pen for stolen cattle.  What they actually found was something neither had suspected.

       “Take a look at that,” Trey said.

       Buck was looking and could hardly believe his eyes.  Gone were the ticky-tacky mobile homes, replaced by several acres of a world class cattle operation.  Steel fencing, painted a fresh white, encircled a holding pen that held a hundred or more mixed breed cattle.  A large barn, feeding troughs and cutting pens painted the picture of a large and expensive cattle operation.

       “Holy cow!” Buck said.

       “Got that right.  Do you see what I see?”

       Buck had already noticed that there were several different breeds present in the large holding pen.

       “What do you make of it?” he asked.

       “They must come from different herds.  I don’t know of a farm in Oklahoma that raises this many different breeds.  I’m going to get some blood samples.”

       An armed man appeared from the barn when Trey stepped out of the van, carrying his black bag.  Dressed in jeans, worn boots and cowboy hat, the man waved his shotgun in a menacing and convincing manner.

       “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

       “I’m the vet.  Your people called me about a bacterial infection.  I need to check out these cows and take some blood samples.”

       “No one told me anything about a vet,” the man said, still brandishing his shotgun.  “I’ll have to call it in.”

       “Fine.  I’ll just get started because this might take a while.”

       The cowboy started to say something but thought better of it, took the cell phone from the pocket of his checkered western shirt and dialed someone.  Trey was already in the pen and taking his first sample.

       “My boss don’t know anything about you being here,” the cowboy said after closing his flip phone and returning his attention to Trey.

       “That’s because I’m up from Texas.  I was part of the operation down there and just moved up to help out.  It doesn’t matter anyway. These cows are all infected and I don’t have the correct vaccine with me to treat them but I’ll be back.”

       Trey vaulted the fence and headed for the van before the addled cowboy could question him further.  Opening the passenger door, he said, “Lets get the hell out of here.”

       Buck didn’t need to be prompted, pulling away as soon as Trey slammed the door.

       “Do any good?” Buck asked as they hurried away down the road.

       “I only had time to take two samples but that should be enough to tell us what we need to know.”

       “Then we scored a home run.”

“Not quite,” Trey said as they rounded a corner and found their path blocked by two pickup trucks and a half-dozen armed men.

Eric’s Web

There are three blueberry bushes in my parent’s backyard in Vivian, Louisiana.  Each year, blueberries fill their branches and my mother provided Brother Jack and me with countless jars of blueberry jam, and fresh blueberries for pies, etc.  When Jack and I cleaned out the house last week in anticipation of selling it, Marilyn gave me one specific order.

“Bring home a cutting from one of your Mother’s blueberry bushes.”

Inclement weather accompanied us to Louisiana and back again.  The tarp used to cover the bed of the truck ripped in the wind long before we made it to Atlanta, Texas, our cuttings whipped and torn by the wind by the time we reached Oklahoma.  I transplanted my cuttings into Oklahoma earth, damp from days of rain.  Will they survive?  I am keeping my fingers crossed.

While sorting through a box containing numerous cookbooks and many individual recipes, I came across this recipe for fresh blueberry pie.  I hope that you can find blueberries as tasty as Mom’s.  If you can, you are in luck.

·                    1/3 cup flour

·                    ½ cup sugar

·                    ½ tsp. cinnamon

·                    4 ½ cups fresh blueberries

·                    9-inch unbaked pie shell

·                    1 Tbsp. lemon juice

·                    ½ cup firmly packed brown sugar

·                    1 cup flour

·                    ½ cup butter or margarine

Combine 1/3 cup flour, sugar, cinnamon and blueberries.  Mix well and put into pie shell.  Drizzle with lemon juice.  Combine brown sugar and 1-cup flour.  Cut in butter until mixture resembles coarse meal.

Spread topping over berries.  Bake for 30 minutes at 425 degrees, and then cover with foil and continue baking for 20 minutes more.  Enjoy.

Eric’s Web

   Here is a chart from the EIA showing monthly production of oil in Oklahoma since 1985.

Eric’s Web

Oil begins the day over $61 per barrel.

Oil Rises as Dollar Drop Spurs Investor Demand for Commodities - Bloomberg.com.

Eric’s Web

Much technological advancement to the science of drilling and completing oil wells has occurred since Colonel Drake brought in the first commercial well in Pennsylvania.  Perhaps the most important was the development of the electric logging tool.  This long, slender device is lowered into the borehole on a cable.  It transmits various signals out into the formation as it is raised from the bottom of the hole and the return signals are recorded on linear graph paper.

By studying this graph known as an electric log, geologists and engineers are able to precisely determine the depth of a formation from the surface, how thick it is and whether or not it is likely to contain recoverable quantities of oil and gas.  This study is called log analysis because, with all the advancements that have taken place since electric logs were first implemented, they still only hint at what a company will find when they actually perforate a possible oil and gas producing zone.  To this day, the most important tool is the geologist’s knowledge of the area and his visual examination of the sample cuttings as they come out of the borehole of a drilling well.

There is no tool that informs a company without reservation that a formation will be productive.  As a result, zones that would be productive are often overlooked and go untested.  In the real world, this is the rule rather than the exception.  I am often asked, why re-enter an old plugged hole?  Didn’t the company that drilled it know there was oil there?  Well, sometimes, apparently not.

One such mistake occurred in Coal County, Oklahoma in 1937.  Conoco, then Continental Oil, drilled the Daniels #1.  The company had originally drilled the well because of information derived from a seismic study and surface mapping.  The resultant well was drilled and subsequently plugged as dry.  In April, 1949, someone had a different idea.

J.A. Roberson, et al re-entered the Daniels #1 in 1949.  The company perforated zones known as the Basal McLish and the Oil Creek and completed them for 203 BOPD and 2 MMCFGD.  This became the discovery well for the East Oconee Field that has since produced more than 4 million barrels of oil.

Two companies had arrived at very different conclusions after careful analysis of the exact same data.  The company that committed the multi-million barrel mistake was none other than Conoco, not some fly-by-night mom and pop organization.  It was, in fact, a mom and pop oil company that made the correct interpretation of the data and brought in the discovery well.

Big oil may rule, but it is the little independents that keep the bulk of the oil flowing in the heart of America.  As in the case of the East Oconee Field, one man’s trash became another man’s treasure.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Oil prices rise above $62 dollars per barrel for the first time in six months.

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20602099&sid=aa_PokVHGcEc#

Eric’s Web

   When I quit Texas Oil & Gas, I gave up my company car, a maroon Plymouth Fury that I dearly loved.  I owned the TR4 that I had bought from my friend John, and a Triumph Bonneville 750 motorcycle that I would someday sell to him.

Neither car nor motorcycle was the picture of reliability.  I left TXO to pursue fantastic riches as an independent oilman.  Being young and naive, I only had about a thousand dollars, most of which I had borrowed from Carol, my girlfriend of the moment, to sustain myself until my first big break.

The Triumph served me well around town but I had not ventured far from my digs at the old Woodlake Apartments where I had moved after my first wife and I finally divorced and sold our house.  When my mother got sick and needed a medical procedure, this all changed.

Packing a suitcase, I tossed it in the trunk, threw caution to the wind and headed south.  My mother survived her procedure in the Atlanta, Texas hospital and we enjoyed a good visit.  I was feeling bulletproof when I finally headed toward OKC along winding Louisiana Highway 1.

Shortly after leaving Louisiana and entering Texas, a sweeping curve appears that you can easily make doing sixty.  I was tooling along at a considerably higher rate of speed when I reached the curve.  How fast?  I have no clue because, like many of the other electronic devices on the Triumph, the speedometer did not work.  When I hit the foot peddle, I got a very big surprise.  I had no brakes.  The sickly weak peddle went straight to the floorboard and remained there.

I thought that I was going to wind up in the ditch.  Instead, the tires on the little car gripped and I ended up accelerating out of the curve, my heart in my proverbial throat.  That was it!  I had no brakes.  Doing what any other testosterone laden young man would do, I decided to keep going and worry about any potential repercussions later.

The Triumph had a strong motor and excellent compression.  When you let off the gas, the car decelerated rapidly.  The car's old tractor engine had enough torque to pull a tree stump and growled like a lion on the prowl.  It made me feel vital and alive.  Don't ask how, but I made it safely back to OKC - 362 miles in less than five hours.

I made no money during the first five months of my independence.  Finally, I earned a pittance for a consulting job.  On impulse, I bought an expensive Guild guitar with a bright red finish I somehow felt that I could not live with out.

It was the last straw for my girlfriend Carol and idiot was the nicest thing she called me that night.  She also called me a hopeless dreamer.  We broke up shortly after the guitar incident but I went on to make more than a quarter of a million dollars before the end of the year.

I made and lost lots more than that during the years that followed, but I also spent many of those years at a level of near poverty.  Still, I survived and I had lots of fun along the way.  Carol was a great person and she was there for me when I needed her.  She is long gone from my life but a few things from that era still remain - my Guild guitar, my Triumph TR4, and at least a few remaining hopeless dreams.

Eric’s Web

Eric’s Web

Canada has vast deposits of the “world’s dirtiest fossil fuel.”

Report Weighs Environmental Fallout of Canada’s Oil Sands - NYTimes.com.

Eric’s Web

Free .pdf’s of mineral magazine The-Vug.  Beautiful pictures and interesting articles for you mineral lovers.  I was entranced by a story of a person buying diamonds from India and claiming to find them at the Crater of Diamonds in Arkansas.

The-Vug.com Quarterly Magazine Online .pdf Archive.

Eric’s Web

Here is a recipe from New Orleans Recipes by Mary Moore Bremer, first published in 1932.  I am presenting the original recipe as it was originally printed, and I leave it to you to “modernize” it any way you see fit.

Saucisses Aux Haricots

(Red Beans and Sausage)

Soak two cups of red beans for five or six hours.  Start them in cold water and salt, cook for two hours and throw away almost all of the water.  Add butter and keep beans going over a slow fire.

Now grill about ten little pork sausages till pretty and brown, and then put them into the saucepan on top of the beans.

Stir till the fat evaporates and the beans are crisp.  Season well.  A little mustard is good for them.  Bon appetit!

Eric’s Web

An interesting article.

WHOI : Oceanus : While Oil Gently Seeps from the Seafloor.

Eric’s Web

The oil boom and ensuing oil bust of the late 70s and 80s is long past and seems almost like a dream to me now. I can recount stories about the era for hours, some of them funny and some of them sad and I still chuckle about one that happened to wife Anne and me.

Anne was an oil and gas accountant – a damn good oil and gas accountant. She and I formed a small oil company and began drilling wells. I love oil business, but Anne was passionate about it. She poured her heart and soul into our company (and I suppose so did I).

Caught up inextricably in the bust, we both fought with every sinew of our beings to save our floundering company. We set out on a quest for a “white knight,” or at least a friendly banker. Alas, we found neither but we had a few adventures along the way.

I have often heard that people that live together for a long time begin to look alike. If this is true then Anne and I were identical twins, and maybe because we were together twenty-four hours every day. Hey, and we both had reddish-blonde hair.

Anne and I traveled the country looking for a friendly banker to bow up our company, suddenly needy with Oklahoma banks and companies crashing right and left. We thought we had found a home with a bank in Los Angeles. On a trip there, we pitched our company, and our souls. The banker, a large man with long hippy hair, a longish beard and John Lennon glasses, listened to our impassioned plea with a happy Santa Claus smile on his round face.

“I’m curious,” he said when we finished our presentation. “How did a brother and sister happen to start an oil company together?”

Neither Anne nor I had a good reply and it did not really matter as his inane remark gave us the answer to the question we had just spent an hour asking.

We never found our white knight, or our friendly banker. Like so many companies during the 80s oil bust, we went belly up. Yes, the bust is long past and seems almost like a dream to me now. Some of the stories were funny but many, so many, I keep buried deep in my heart – until moments such as now when they come bubbling up painfully to a surface still frothy with crushed emotion.

Eric’s Web

The summer after graduating college and just before I married my first wife, I mudlogged for a company named Core Lab.  The work took me from Laurel, Mississippi to east Texas.  In between, I sat a well in south Texas, near the Mexican border.  I met quite a few oil patch characters and learned a lot about drilling oil and gas wells.  Most of all, I learned a few things about life.

One of the people that I met was Bob, an Oklahoma native.  He filled in for a few days while another logger took a much-needed rest.  A south Texas cornfield provided the location for the giant drilling rig but we stayed in Weslaco when not on the job.

“Whatever you do, don’t take the company car into Mexico,” our supervisor had warned us.  “If something were to happen, we have no insurance to cover it.”

His warning fell on deaf ears as barely a night went by that we did not take the company car over the border.  We spent little time in the touristy part of Reynosa, usually heading immediately for what we knew familiarly as “Boy’s Town,” and no, it had nothing to do with Father Flanagan.

Art, Jack and I had worked on the drilling well for more than a month, Mexico already old hat for us.  When seven arrived, though, Bob was ready to rock and roll.  Skipping dinner, we headed for the border instead.

“There’s more to Mexico than most tourists ever see,” Bob said.  “We’re going to eat real Mexican food tonight.”

We parked the company car on a well lighted, albeit dirt street and paid an old senor a couple of dollars to watch it for us.  I followed Bob down a dark backstreet with rows of tiny shops.  Amid them, we found a little café that had no door.

“Let’s check this place out,” he said, going in and taking a seat at one of the only two tables in the place.  When a senora approached the table, Bob pointed to some dried meat hanging from a rafter.  “Y soupa,” he added.  “This will be the best meal you ever ate, and the cheapest,” he assured me as the senora nodded blankly and walked away.

When the soup arrived, it was little more than a bowl of hot water with a few beans in it.  “That’s all right.  This is authentic,” Bob assured me.

The plate of meat arrived cold and tough.  Bob and I dutifully ate every morsel because 1) we were hungry and 2) we did not want to insult the two restaurateurs, smiling as they watched us gnaw at the dried beef.  When we finished, Bob handed the senora a dollar bill.

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

From her frown, we could tell the money he offered was not enough.  She continued frowning and shaking her head, even after he gave her five one-dollar bills.  The owner of the place soon joined the senora and proceeded to tell us something in Spanish that neither of us could understand, except for the word policia.  It took another twenty dollars to get us out of the place and the owner still did not look very happy.  The meal didn’t seem to deter Bob’s enthusiasm.

“Forget about that.  We are in “Boy’s Town.”  Let’s get laid.”

We were in “Boys Town,” in fact the very heart of the red light district.  The dirt street was dark and lined on both sides with tiny cubicles, each sporting a senorita standing outside, beckoning us to join them.  I was more than a little skeptical when Bob made his next pronouncement.

“The way to do it is to choose the oldest and ugliest putah.  Since you’ll probably be her only customer for the night, you’ll get a real ride for less than half the price.”

“You go ahead.  I wait here for you.”

Bob took his own advice and chose a prostitute that fit his theory.  “Three dollars,” he said when he reappeared ten minutes later.  “Three dollars for the best time I ever had in the sack.  You better get you some of that.”

“Maybe next time,” I said.

Several bars and many cervezas later, we returned to find our car still safe, the wheels, tires intact, and the same senor still guarding it.  I handed him another dollar out the window as we headed back to Texas.  It was three when we got back to Weslaco and I took a needed dip in the motel pool.  I never saw Bob again after Jack returned to relieve him but I did hear that the Company had fired him after he had flipped a trailer he was moving to another site.

I learned a lot that summer and one thing in particular that has kept me in good stead for all these many years - never trust an Oklahoma oilman, or believe a word he says, no matter how convincing or sincere he may seem.

Eric’s Web

  Yesterday, I had a visit from one of Oklahoma’s most famous oil men, Carl Swan.  Here is a pic.

Eric’s Web

Sounds like China still has a long way to go.

China Far Outpaces U.S. in Building Cleaner Coal-Fired Plants - NYTimes.com.

Eric’s Website

An absolutely amazing site.  I couldn’t stop exploring.

Infinite Photograph -- As Seen On Earth -- The Green Guide.

Eric’s Web

I have found a new website that features many wonderful recipes for healthy eating.  Please check out eatingwell.com.  This recipe for shrimp and plum kebobs immediately caught my attention.  Toss quick-cooking shrimp, juicy summertime plums and zesty jalapeños with a simple cilantro-lime marinade for a deluxe meal in minutes. If you like, use peaches or nectarines in place of the plums and red or green bell peppers for the jalapeños.

3 tablespoons canola oil or toasted sesame oil
2 tablespoons chopped fresh cilantro
1 teaspoon freshly grated lime zest
3 tablespoons lime juice
½  teaspoon salt
12 raw shrimp (8-12 per pound), peeled and deveined
3 jalapeño peppers, stemmed, seeded and quartered lengthwise
2 plums, pitted and cut into sixths

1. Whisk oil, cilantro, lime zest, lime juice and salt in a large bowl. Set aside 3 tablespoons of the mixture in a small bowl to use as dressing. Add shrimp, jalapeños and plums to the remaining marinade; toss to coat.

2. Preheat grill to medium-high.

More good news for oil producers.

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20602099&sid=aEcpqi2JEv_I&refer=energy

Eric’s Web

Just when you thought the world was coming to an end -

http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=20602099&sid=aPl7_p9G1uHM

Eric’s Web

More good news for natural gas producers.

Natural Gas Advances in New York Amid Signs Slowdown Is Easing - Bloomberg.com.

Eric’s Web

A drilling overview in offshore Brazil.

OTC 2009: Tupi not for pessimists.

Eric’s Web

Opinions from energy execs. Take it any way you like.

U.S. Energy Independence? Get Real, Oil Execs Say in Survey - Bloomberg.com.

Eric’s Web

  Here is a pic by friend Kelli McKenna taken before the March, 2009 storm in central Oklahoma.

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        I have mentioned my new novel in progress, Bones of Skeleton Creek before.  I took a field trip to Logan County with friends Terry and Jerry to visit the Logan County jail.  We met Sheriff Jim Bauman and Captain Bill Warner, a Logan County police veteran who gave us a guided tour of the facilities.

Logan County has perhaps the nicest facilities of any comparable-sized place in the country.  The phrase that comes to mind is state of the art.  Captain Bill also gave us a personal tour of the old Logan County jail.  As a Vietnam vet, I have seen many frightening things in my life, but the old Logan County jail sent chills down my spine.

On the way back to Edmond, we stopped to scope out the Rockaway Bar, another prominent landmark in my new novel.  We met the owner, Gene Duncan – a very nice person that I soon learned I had lots in common with – and many of his wonderful patrons such as Rick and Carla.

Research is great!  I met many very nice people.  I have not had so much fun in years.  Here are a few pics from my excursion.

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I love racing, every manner of racing from autos, to bobsleds, to humans on foot.  This afternoon, I witnessed a race that people will remember forever – the 134^th running of the Kentucky Derby.  A 50-1 long shot, a horse purchased for only $9500, won by almost 7 lengths.

Louisiana jockey Calvin Borel brought the winner Mine That Bird home on a sloppy track, hugging the rail and winding through traffic.  Mindful of the importance of the victory, Borel paraded Mine That Bird around the track Instead of heading directly for the winner’s circle.

The trainer, Chip Wooley, a relative unknown in the sport and now a first time winner of the Kentucky Derby, had driven the horse from New Mexico, a twenty-one hour drive, with a broken leg from a recent motorcycle accident.

Three heroes emerged from this historic race: Borel, Wooley and Mine That Bird.  I watched the event in rapt amazement, wondering how a well thought out movie script could have conveyed more emotion.

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For several years, Anne and I spent every Tuesday night at Serapio’s Restaurant on North May Avenue in Oklahoma City.  We were part of a group that participated in Showdown Trivia, a televised, interactive game played, in real time, by similar groups at hundreds of clubs and restaurants across the U.S. and Canada.

The restaurant is now located in El Reno but still owned by Jimmie and Janie Meadows, wonderful people and great restaurateurs.  Jimmie and Janie’s food is all prepared from scratch and from family recipes.  My favorite dish is the chile relleno.  While this is not the family recipe, it is a close approximation, less Jimmie and Janie’s secret seasonings.

For the real magilla, take a little trip to El Reno, Oklahoma, and say hi to Jimmie and Janie for me.

Jimmy’s Chili Rellenos

·                  6 Anaheim Chiles

·                  ½  pound Monterey jack cheese

·                  ½ pound lean ground beef

·                  ½  cup flour

·                  3 eggs, separated

·                  1 tablespoon water

·                  3 tablespoon flour

·                  ¼  tsp salt

·                  oil for deep frying

Drain the chiles and cut slits in the side of each one (take care to keep them in one piece). Remove seeds and membrane. Brown and season the ground beef.  Cut cheese into sticks about 1 inch shorter than chiles in length and ½” in width and thickness. Place cheese sticks and ground beef inside chiles and press sides together gently to seal. Place the ½ cup of flour in a dish and coat each chile. Place chiles on wax paper lined cookie sheet and chill for an hour.

Batter: Beat egg whites until stiff. Combine in another bowl the egg yolks, water, 3 tablespoons of flour and the salt; mix until smooth. Gently fold in beaten egg whites. Heat deep fryer to 375 degrees. Dip each chile into batter and then place on saucer. Slide chiles from saucer into hot oil. Fry about 4 minutes, until puffed and golden.

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As an independent geologist, I was once on retainer to the son of the owner’s of the Dallas Cowboys.  J.D. Murchison, Jr. - son of J.D. Murchison and nephew of Clint Murchison - had started an oil company during the eighties oil boom called Murchison Oil and Gas.  To inaugurate the marriage, our new employers invited my partner John and me to Dallas to attend a playoff game with the Washington Redskins.  Anne, my fiancée and Debbie, John’s fiancée accompanied us.

They put us up in a wonderful hotel and had dinner one night at the Murchison’s restaurant in the Dallas Tower.  I had taken only a light jacket.  By the time the big game started, the weather had turned cold.

We had fifty-yard line seats, right behind the Governor of Texas.  Dallas was losing badly, even though Roger Staubach, perhaps the greatest quarterback of all time, was running the show, Dallas was losing badly.  I cannot remember the exact score, but it was something like 38 to 7.  Finally, seeing me shivering, Anne talked everyone into leaving early.

Before we reached the lower level, we heard an imposing roar.  Near the exit, we heard another eruption.  By the time we reached the car, we heard yet another roar.  We soon learned that the Cowboys had not only made a showing, they had come back and won the game, the most improbable comeback in playoff history.

Yes, we missed the ending but strange things happen in life.  John and I went on to drill many wells with J.D.  Later on, I even drank beer from a boot with Jerry Jones, the present owner of the Cowboys – but that is another story.

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